


to make the taker mad

by orphan_account



Series: sharp teeth and sharper words [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Anal Sex, Badass Dean, Bottom Castiel, Bottom Dean, Dirty Talk, Enthusiastic Consent, Fantastic Sexism, Knotting, M/M, Marathon Sex, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omegaverse, Oral Sex, Pack Bonding, Pack Dynamics, Rimming, Rough Sex, Soulmates, Top Castiel, Top Dean, Topping from the Bottom, True Love, face fucking, more porn than i've ever written ever, nonsexual claiming, omegas are fucking metal, strange cultural norms, strange gender dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-05-03 06:05:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5279606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's exactly like other omegas, and it's time for his long overdue heat.</p><p>Featuring: lots of sex. Lots. And a rather unexpected friendship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to make the taker mad

\--

 

On the first day, there is nothing.

 

\--

 

On the second day, Dean's left bollock itches.

He wonders if this is some strange sign of the onset. He spends a ridiculous amount of time in the bathroom, examining said bollock for signs of wear and tear, of distress. He's about five seconds away from breaking out the magnifying glass when Sam hammers on the door.

"Stop preening! I need to shower. And you're not in season yet, I'd smell it. Stop staring at yourself."

Sometimes, Dean hates his brother.

 

\--

 

On the third day, they slaughter a nest of vamps.

Sam likes it. It gives him a chance to really get his teeth into something.

 

\--

 

On the fourth day, Castiel returns from his quest for God.

On the fourth day, it starts.

 

\--

 

Of course, the whole affair started a week prior to that -- when Dean went to a free clinic in Arkansas, mainly because Sam wouldn't shut up.

It was just a rash, after all. Probably a reaction to the shitty detergent they used.

But Sam's an alpha -- a whiny, _annoying_ alpha -- and if he thinks that there's something wrong with his pack he won't let it rest, so along Dean went, and he clutched his fake id until he was called in to see the doctor: a pretty black beta with dark eyes and a reassuring take-no-shit way of talking.

He shows her the rash. It's along his hipbone, stretching up towards his belly button, red and scaly, bits of skin flaking off like dandruff. "Itches like a motherfucker," he admits, as she presses the point of one finger to it.

"Any loss of appetite?" she says. "Strange dreams? Restlessness?"

"Well, uh." The lie dances up his throat -- _I'm fine honest_ \-- but he swallows it down, thinks of Sam and Cas and pack and how Dad is long, long dead. "Yeah. I've not been hungry much; I can't sit still and -- and yeah, I've been having, uh. Nightmares."

The doctor nods, her fingers rattling across the keys.

And then, the golden question:

"And when was your last season?"

 

\--

 

The answer: about seventeen years ago.

The diagnoses: _come off the damn suppressants and have a heat. It'll be messy. It'll probably be longer than normal. You've got a mate I see so stick with them. After that, you have a heat a year. At least. No, you come off asap. Not next week. Now._

 

\--

 

And so.

On the fourth day, God said --

Let it begin.

 

\--

 

Dean's awake at six, flushed all over, sweat tangling his hair, pouring down his face. He leaps out of bed, because the sheets are too close, Cas is too close, everything is too hot and too close and trying to breathe is like trying to inhale through damp laundry.

Jesus-fuck-Christ.

He locks himself in the bathroom. Turns on the shower, cold water singing down over fevered skin, and it provides a little relief. He's shaky, muscles twitching, throat spasming. Like he's just run a fucking marathon. In the desert. With no water.

He cracks open his mouth, drinks straight from the shower, water curdling his stomach.

With a belly sloshing full of liquid and hair clinging up in spikes, Dean stumbles from the shower to the sink, braces his palms on the countertop, stares at his reflection. He sees a handsome bastard: glossy with sweat, red with exertion. His pupils are blown wild and black, and --

_Ah._

His insides give a little spasm, and his scent glands throb.

Slick puddles inside him, then starts to migrate down towards the back of his thighs.

 

\--

 

The doctor's exact words: _it will be more intense than a normal heat because you've put it off so long. Keep hydrated. Avoid other alphas, if you can. Stay with your mate._

Her pretty mouth contorted. She was clearly trying to find a professional way to say the rest of her treatment.

Dean took pity on her. _And get knotted?_ he said.

 _Yes,_ she said. _Normal heats are three to four days. This could be over a week. Good luck!_

 

\--

 

Dean's scent glands are located just inside his ass, nestled an inch or so above the entrance, things smaller than a pea and yet -- well, he's hideously aware of their presence now: they bloom hot and huge and red-red- _red_ , burning, little nodules of starfire and comet-trail.

Castiel appears as he ever does: looming over Dean, no sense of personal space at all.

He looks ruined.

Seriously. The poor bastard looks worse than Dean. His hair is a mess, his eyes are unfocused, he's panting in air like a dying man --

He shoves Dean against the wall. Dean's skin blooms with heat -- more fucking heat -- and whereever Cas touches, there is light and fire and life. There is a pinpoint of _want-need_ that spreads out in concentric circles over Dean's entire body, until is alive and quivering with it, electric with desire, mewling -- fuckin' _mewling_ like like --

(well, like an omega in season. like an omega getting fucked)

"This is a heat then," he says, and Cas just growls, shoves his head into the curve of Dean's neck, lapping and sucking and it's not enough, not nearly enough, so Dean grabs him and kisses him.

It's not really a kiss. They pant into each other's mouths, tongues shoving wet and rough together, teeth clacking. It's a fucking _mess._ Dean nips Castiel's lower lip, hard enough to split it, and Castiel just moans --  a deep throaty sound that he's never made before and it strikes Dean that this is a new time for both of them, that he may never had had a proper heat but Cas has never been with an omega in heat either. And he won't know what to do. And he's new to humanity, to the demands of the flesh, and the hormones fucking up his biology are going to be new and confusing for him.

A wash of affection supersedes the song of _get-knotted_. Dean pulls away, smooths his hands through Cas's hair, presses a gentle kiss to the sharp curve of his mouth. Cas opens up for him, but Dean ignores the invite -- just peppers kisses along Cas's jawline, onto his nose, on his temples, until Cas starts to simmer down, stops trying to chew Dean's face off and instead returns the gentle, exploratory touches.

His skin is heated, his stomach is a roiling mess -- but Dean's slow and soft with Cas, mouthing reassurance into the curve of his neck, sucking at his earlobes (for some bizarre reason Cas loves this), and he's still got a fucking flood of slick glistening diamond-bright on the back of his thighs but he can ignore it, because he has Cas here, and Cas is all that matters.

"I do not want to hurt you," says Castiel. His voice is strained. "But -- but my human body is doing things which I do not understand. I am an angel. I do not get heats. I should not respond to heats."

"Has an angel ever stayed in a human body as long as you?" Dean says.

"Not to my knowledge, no --"

"Then how the fuck are you meant to know what the normal response is? Has an angel ever mated with a human?"

"No --"

"And what is it that the Good Book says? That ' _what God has joined, let no man split apart_?"

"Something like that --"

"--and so," Dean says, triumphant in his theological wrangling, "isn't it fair to say that mating is a divine thing? Something God made for us? Something that Heaven has planned, and -- and _ordered?"_

"Entirely--"

"--possible, yes. And you are my mate, and so bits of you are going to respond to my heat because it is the oldest fuckin' rule in the book; the most profound bond you can have. And so you're my alpha. _Mine._ And --"

Castiel kisses him. It's probably to shut him up, but Dean isn't complaining. They make out like teenagers, all sloppy push of tongue-teeth-lips, and when Dean pushes Castiel away the angel obliges, stepping back, the space between them singing with tension. He's naked, of course, and his cock is red and jutting and just begging for attention.

So of course Dean ignores it. Because he's a dick.

He licks and nips Castiel's collarbone, savouring the salt of his skin. His ass is leaking even more, pulse after pulse of slick, so much he thinks he might drown -- his legs are glistening, and the bathroom is filled top to bottom with the reek of an omega in heat. Vanilla, burned coffee and honey.

He's desperate. He wants to spin around, present, let Cas fill him up -- but despite the surging cry of his heat through his veins he's still Dean, still got a grip on his self-control, and he loves the high, impatient sounds that Castiel makes as he sucks bruises just above his nipples.

(What Dean loves even more: Castiel doesn't even try to make him present. Won't touch him without permission. Won't do anything without Dean's consent, without his explicit say-so.)

(Partnership of equals, he thinks. Who'd have thought it -- those are the sexiest words he knows.)

"Do you want me?" Dean breathes, his mouth trailing back up towards Castiel's chin. "D'you -- "

Castiel runs his hands up Dean's forearms. His fingers stop just short of Dean's nape, curling in on themselves and quivering, wanting to touch but not daring to. His eyes beg. His mouth is a contorted shiver of want, and the smell of his arousal thickens in the air around him. "Please," he whispers. "I want you more than anything. More than --"

"--then _have me_ ," Dean says, and the tension spikes and breaks and it's a flood, a storm, a surge. "Take me." He grins, can't help himself; he's thinking of romance books about omegas swept off their feet by charming, dangerous alphas.

Castiel's lips snatch his, catching the laugh in his mouth, and his hand comes down on the nape of Dean's neck and the contact rockets all the way to Dean's knees (which do not buckle, thank you God) and bounces back, white lightning dance all in his bones and oh yes oh God -- Castiel tightens his fingers over the mating-mark, over the claim and Dean cries out -- sharp and high and needy as a bird.

Dean returns the favour: hand clasps on Castiel's nape and Cas doesn't react quiet as viscerally; he just smiles, deep and warm and content, and honey-gold satisfaction steals over his face. He sighs happily, slinking into Dean's grip.

For a moment they grip each other, and they stare. Drinking in the sight. Dean's so in love he could puke. He's so in love the world could fucking stop and he wouldn't notice or care.

And, because he knows it matters to Cas, he says "I want you to fuck me."

And Castiel's smile changes: gets sharper, leaner, hungry. He growls -- and may God save us from horny alphas, because Dean just melts. Another shudder trills his abdomen.

This time when Castiel kisses him, he lifts him up -- Dean twines his legs round Castiel's waist -- and in a heartbeat they're on the bed.

"Lazy bastard," he says, as Castiel lays him down.

Castiel only presses a soft, gentle kiss to the corner of Dean's mouth. "Beautiful," he chides, gentle, and then he's sliding down, licking and nipping, sloppy-sweet, and Dean obliges, opening up his knees at the merest nudge from Castiel's hands. His skin is alight, afire. The heat is bearing up under his skin, intensifying every little touch and brush to a fall of shooting-star pleasure that leads to another surge of slick.

When Castiel presses a finger inside him, brushing first his scent glands and then his prostate -- Dean cums in a sudden, embarrassing surge, all over his abdomen. His dick twitches, and Dean slumps, boneless and slack.

Castiel sniggers. It's so strange, listening to Castiel laugh. Stranger than hearing him moan, or sigh with pleasure; he's an angel with a throat made for singing praises, not giggling with the joy of watching Dean cum.

But he is. He is, and he's laughing, and he's beautiful.

Castiel presses in another finger, working them back and forth; it slides in effortless. Dean's wet, dripping. His rim is puffy and red, like a fucking target: PUT YOURSELF HERE.

Two fingers, feeling the resistance of Dean's muscle; his heat has provided plenty of slick, but there's not much give there, not yet. Castiel nudges a third finger -- Dean's breath hitches; it's not pain, not exactly, but it sends a strange trill through his ass, a little shudder of discomfort.

He's oversensitive. Burning up. Fever-shuddering.

And yet when Castiel pauses, two fingers deep, his mouth about to form the words should I stop? Dean feels ready to die.

"If you stop," he says, "I'll kill you," and he shoves back onto Castiel's fingers, ignoring the slash of white pain-pleasure that slams through his innards. "Fuck me. Knot me. Jesus Christ Cas -- "

And Cas -- may all the gods of Heaven and all the potentates of Hell rip his cunting heart out -- pulls out.

Dean whines in frustration.

Castiel smooths a hand over Dean's thighs, lifting them high, sending Dean sprawling back; lifting his ass up so he can --

Oh dear God.

Castiel presses the point of his tongue against Dean's perineum, working back and forth, tracing a figure of eight -- then he pulls back, flattens his tongue out, drags it over Dean's dripping rim. Dean spasms with pleasure. He's not even whining anymore; he's uttering a low, continuous cry, a mewl, spiking every now and then when Castiel's tongue nudges against that magical sweet spot inside him.

Well. One of three. A prostate is awesome; scent glands are awesome too; and being an omega is brilliant sometimes, because alphas don't have scent glands there. Poor old Cas.

Castiel shoves his tongue all the way inside, teeth resting on Dean's rim, and his growl flutters inside Dean.

Dean's cock is getting harder again, lolling back and forth, turning red and weeping precum. Cas's hands are occupied, wedging Dean open to give him unfettered access -- so Dean reaches for his cock, desperate for something to thrust against, even if it's just the hollow of his fist.

"No," Castiel says, alpha-command throbbing in his voice. His voice like sandpaper. _Sexy_ sandpaper. Jesus Christ, Dean's brain isn't working --

"Please," he says, mouth falling open, slack and wanting. "Please --" and he takes a deep shuddering breath, forces himself into some semblance of self control, " -- fuck me, get inside me, just fucking knot me you --"

Castiel rams inside him. Dean opens up for him, asshole parting red and dewy around Castiel's cock, opening up like it's made for him

(and it is, it is)

and when he's inside, snug and tight and home, Castiel rocks forwards, deeper, so deep that Dean swears he tastes him at the back of his throat

(storm and fire and mate and home)

and slowly, slowly he pulls out -- Dean wants to scream in frustration, white-fire and shivering want and yesyesyes as Castiel presses back in, back in, and this time he knots. Dean stretches to accomadate him, stretching open, stretched to breaking point, his insides rearranging to have Cas wedged there.

Castiel plasters himself to Dean's front, kissing him like he wants to eat him alive. His hips continue to rock, tiny little thrusts that send explosions rocketing up Dean's spine. He sees stars, fire, the line and shape of the universe.

(at least, he thinks he does. Jesus fucking God, this is the best he's felt ever. Ever.)

"Love you Cas," he gasps. "You're mine. You're fucking mine. I love you, love you, love you."

 

\--

 

Dean sucks Castiel off in the shower, swallows him down until he gags, pulling away just in time for Castiel to knot and spray his face with a truly unholy about of semen.

 

\--

 

Dean fucks Castiel with his own slick, working the alpha open with quick deep thrusts of his fingers, every now and then pausing to scrape more slick from inside him -- then he pushes his cock into Castiel, and Cas is blister-hot, tight and beautiful and warm where no one but Dean has ever touched (or ever will touch.)

 

\--

 

Castiel works four fingers in and out of Dean, until Dean begs to be fucked -- and then he shoves into Dean with such force that they break the fucking bed. 

 

\--

 

Castiel knots Dean, and Dean hangs off him, gasping and shuddering and pouring sweat, his bones hollow with exhaustion -- Castiel chews idly on his neck, rocking his hips back and forth, little tugs of movement -- and Dean is stretched wide open around Castiel --

"So pretty," murmurs the angel, "so pretty, and all mine, spread on my knot, spread open for me. You're so pretty back here Dean, pretty and pink and wet."

 

\--

 

And Castiel isn't the only one who can talk dirty -- Dean shoves him back onto the bed, straddles him, cock leaking all over Cas's stomach and holds his wrists down so he can't touch himself, can only twirl his hips in desperate circles, searching frantically for something to rut against. 

"Want me Cas? Want to come inside me? Want to bury your cock in my tight ass? It's warm inside me, warm and tight and wet and all for you - want me? Beg, alpha. Fuckin' beg."

"Please," Castiel says, without a moment of hesitation. "Please let me fuck you. Please."

Dean's not cruel. He obliges: sinking slow and deliberate onto Castiel's cock, but he holds his mate down still, riding him in soft rocking motions. Castiel's hands flex on the bed, useless and grasping, but he doesn't grab Dean; he just watches as Dean settles into the bounce- _bounce_ of a good fuck, his hips rising and falling, strong and sure. 

"Beautiful," he mouthes, the soppy bastard. 

 

 

\--

 

(That is pretty much how Dean spends the next two days. When he's not fucking Castiel, or asleep, he's slugging litres and litres of water -- or else devouring pizza that they get delivered to their sex-reeking motel room by very embaressed delivery boys. It's fucking bliss.)

 

\--

 

Two days turns into three days.

Three is starting to edge into four when Dean declares that it's getting ridiculous, and he needs to start hunting again or he'll go mad.

"But your heat isn't over yet," Cas protests.

"I'll be fine," says Dean. "Just need to wash the cum out of my hair."

 

\--

 

Sam's drinking coffee in the Impala when his brother emerges from his den of sex and shame. He's got black-red bruises on his throat, like a sacrificial garland, and the stupidest smile Sam's ever seen plastered across his face."Sammy," crows Dean, slurring like he's drunk, limping -- fucking limping -- and behind him Castiel spreads helpless hands in the universal gesture for _I tried to talk him out of this nonsense and I failed._

"Dean," says Sam, quick and tight slash of sound in the carpark. Fingers tense and teeth gritted and oh God his brother smells fucking divine, and there is no way in hell he's going to be cooped up in a car with that for however long. He refuses. "Get back in there."

"Heard you got a case," says Dean, careless and smirking and reeking of vanilla. "Heard --"

"-- yeah, there's a case," says Sam, skittering back before Dean can touch him. "But I can handle it --"

"Dean requests a hunt," says Castiel, "and we must give him one," and that is the matter, the heart and centre. Dean is packleader. Dean is packleader, even when he's propped on the Impala with a goofy grin stretching his lips, elbows sprawling on the surface of --

Oh Jesus.

He's _presenting._

Well. He's not aware he's doing it but he is nonetheless --hips canted back, ass in the air, and the curl and flicker of an early fall wind is enough to unfurl flags of scent right across the parking lot.

"Let's go!" Sam says, his voice coming out cut and quick. His hand quivers in the air, wanting to give Dean a nudge to hurry him along but he daren't touch him. Castiel's gaze is boring into his back, twin skewers of heat and light and fury, and Sam's blood is warm and shuddering in his veins, and there is a demon running amok in a little town called Chastity Falls (no, seriously) -- making deals and causing mayhem -- but Sam's eighty per cent sure he's going to die before he even gets there.

 

\--

 

Dean's got all Baby's windows down, wind blustering sharp and cold in and out, rain mixed in, rain and sun and the surge and rush of scent -- exhaust and meadow grass, pesticide and dry earth -- and still,  _still_ , Sam's got his head stuck out of the window like a puppy, his hair flustering to and fro -- and Cas is doing the same. Head-and-shoulders out, and an erection the size of the Washington Monument. Dean can't see Sam's crotch -- and really doesn't want to -- but he's got a terrible feeling that Sam's got his wood on as well. 

"Jesus fuck, it's just a smell," says Dean. Neither of them respond. "I can't even hear AC/DC. I'm cold."

One of these things is a lie: he's not cold. His skin simmers with heat, and the locus of the warmth is his ass, which every now and then gives out a little pulse -- and another shiver of slick.

He wriggles his hips, trying to unstick his underwear from his asscrack. The fabric's clambering up his skin. It's profoundly unsexy, and very annoying and --

The motion releases another flutter of scent. Vanilla. Sugar. 

Castiel's got his head out of the window, but he still utters a high, desperate whine. "Dean I --" and he hauls himself back into his seat, eyes wide and wild and black as his pupils dilate, his lips parted and his skin covered in a sheen of sweat. "Dean, oh God, please can we pull over?" 

A low, warm throb in Dean's stomach. His cock give a tired, vaguely interested twitch, and his scent glands burn hotter than two stars. There's nothing but farmland for acres around them, a wide grey sky, the flex of the horizon against the earth. Nowhere to hide. Unless Castiel wants to bend him over the back of the Impala --

That thought isn't exactly unappealing. 

Castiel fists Dean's shirt in both hands, presses a sloppy kiss to the corner of his jaw. His teeth catch Dean's earlobe, nibble a little, his breath a moist gush. The rich, organic smell of alpha folds around Dean, a hot curtain that tenses over his skin, settling into his hair, and he hauls the scent in, holds it in his lungs; the mark at the back of his neck throbs --

"Guys fuckin' stop," says Sam, his voice high and thin and pained. 

\-- oh yeah, Sam's in the car. 

 

\--

 

There's a house nestled by the side of the road with a big red FOR SALE sign stuck outside it. 

"Uh," says Dean.

"Fine," Sam snaps. "I'll stay in here, watch for cops. Or the owners. Go on, fuck off."

 

\--

 

The high, sweet scent of an omega in heat is doing strange and terrible things to Sam's biology. 

It's Dean. It's Dean, his brother and packleader, but his knotbrain isn't exactly paying attention to where the scent is coming from; only that it is there in abundance

Summer, long and slow and sweet; golden syrup; heather-honey and the first unfurling petals of spring. Notes of vanilla. Gingerbread.

Sam can't get enough of the scent. He closes his eyes and inhales, filling his lungs from the top to the bottom with the heady richness.

Croissants. Pastry, flaking apart at the faintest touch; icing sugar. Kitkats. Hershey's kisses. 

Uh. 

Well. 

He has a look outside. No one, not for miles and miles. 

His zipper rasps down. 

 

\--

 

"Get naked," Castiel says, his voice a rasp, and Dean is happy to oblige. He fumbles with his buttons, only Castiel gets impatient -- after two seconds, the horny knothead fuck -- and tears Dean's shirt into three trembling quavers of fabric, tossing it aside, buttons popping off and skittering over the floor. The house is cosy, domestic, spic-and-span. 

Dean wants to be fucked on every surface he can find. 

His hands go to Castiel's belt, tug it a notch forward so it slides away in his hand, press of leather warmed by skin, and that joins Dean's ruined shirt on the floor. Cas shoves his jeans down, a greedy surge of movement, almost tripping in his haste to stumble out of them. 

Dean's jeans are painful, rasping against his raw-weeping dick and his leaking, shivering hole. The stink of heat is everywhere, vanilla so high and hot that the room will reek for days. 

"Dean, you are beautiful."

The thrum of alpha command throbbing in his mate's voice snaps electric-sizzle down his spine, into his scent-glands, into his heart and ribs and every fibre and atom of him is alight with lust. He can barely see straight. He grabs Castiel's collar, hauls him into a devouring kiss, biting and licking, and then it's not really a kiss at all. Mouths hanging open tasting and breathing each other's air, tongues shoved against each other. 

Castiel snaps his fingers. The last tatters of clothing vanish.

Dean sucks Castiel's lower lip into his mouth, teasing along the plush flesh with the blunt ridges of his teeth. Castiel purrs, a hard and quivering sound, and slams Dean up against the wall, biting at his neck. Dean's so wet he think he might just die if he doesn't get Cas inside him like  _yesterday_ \-- so he opens up his knees, lets Cas insinuate a leg between them, and he rubs up against the angel's thigh and the friction isn't enough, isn't anywhere near enough. He needs to be knotted, to be held, to be filled up --

Except, uh. They can't really do that. 

Quickies with alphas are all but impossible. Cas's scent is dark and rich, chocolate heavy, twining the pair of them up in a cocoon of sex and want and need and  _now --_ that's the order, at least, carried clear and true on Castiel's pheromones, even if the man himself isn't saying anything but  _Dean Dean Dean_. 

Fabric hangs in trembling quavers at Dean's flanks, and he opens his mouth to protest -- only for Castiel to shove his fingers in there instead. Dean's quite happy to have some part of Castiel inside him, and so he sucks and moans and deep throats said fingers as enthusiastically as he would suck Castiel off. 

(another downside to sex with alphas: is it worth risking a blow job? Dean refuses to die of cock-based asphyxiation, even if Castiel would just bring him back.)

Castiel looks frighteningly intent. 

"Stay still," he says, and oh all the gods above -- he  _kneels_.

Alphas aren't meant to do that. They're  _not_. Dean doesn't believe in all those old norms, of course, but he can't deny that he gets a delicious little shiver at the sight of Castiel on his knees. And it happens every time. 

(Cas never gets old, never gets boring)

He's also not one to tease. He swallows Dean down in one go, and Dean knots his hands in sweat-sticky hair, thrusting the slick-slide of Castiel's throat. 

Castiel reaches up, between Dean's thigh, circles his wet rim with his thumb before sliding two fingers in, scissoring them open. Dean mewls, his hips snapping forward and Castiel takes it, his mouth wide and pliant, his eyes nothing short of rapturous. A third finger joins the other two, nudging Dean's prostate, and he sees stars, fire, the fucking _world_ \--  

He comes down the back of Castiel's throat, and Castiel swallows down every last drop. 

 

\--

 

Dean stumbles from the house, kiss-bruised and quivery, a stupid sloppy smile hanging from his jaw.

There's a police car. 

Oh _fuck_.

 

-

 

"You had a wank in Baby?" Dean says, appalled. 

Anger surges through him, fast and vicious as a swarm of bees, and he tastes iron. How fucking dare he, how fucking  _dare he_ \--

His pack. His! And this, this --  _challenge to him_ \--

Baby is his sanctified space, and now she probably reeks of alpha-cum. 

(She has smelt of far worse, but that was Dean and Cas and that's different, that's okay -- )

" -- I'm arresting you for public indecency," says the cop. 

Dean ignores him, in favour of trying to rip his brother's face off. 

 

\--

 

No. 

Seriously. 

 

\--

 

They have to pull him off Sam. They being the cops -- both alphas, a girl and a boy, their scents getting high and agitated at the smell of a freshly-fucked omega in heat. 

Castiel, helpfully, is standing to one side. Dean's got blood between his teeth, and Sam's submitting on the ground. Throat bared, fox-eyes bright with shock, sharp teeth veiled behind his lips. Dean had got two good bites onto Sam before the cops jumped in: blood is seeping slow and red through Sam's torn shirt. 

But there's no guilt in Dean. None at all. His brother is bleeding, and all he feels is vindication --  _you disobeyed you_   **disobeyed** \--

Pack is pack is pack. Pack is all there is, and pack that will not obey will be  _made_ to obey with teeth and _blood_. 

(when the  _fuck_ did he become a knot head?)

But then he thinks of his mother, of Mary, of her pale soft smile and one hand curled tight around the hilt of a knife. 

(omegas raise the children. Alphas are scared when an omega gets  _pissed_.)

And this is why. 

A heat, Dean realises, is far more than just getting fucked. 

(that's the best bit. But it's not the only bit.)

(and there is a  _reason_ that alphas fear an omega who has their blood up and teeth bared --)

(but a lot of alphas are fucking stupid)

 

\--

 

And so, it seems, are demons.

 

\--

 

"Really," Dean says, standing straight and smirking in the arms of the two monsters holding him, "really getting old guys. Don't you think that Lucifer is a bit of a shit Dad? Letting his kids do his dirty work."

"Shut the fuck up," says the man, his eyes flooding black as the void between stars. His scent changes, deep and rancid, the old and dead things beneath the earth; sulphur and rotting meat, maggots squirming through bones. 

"Now, you  _bitch_ \--" starts the woman, but she doesn't finish that sentence. 

 

\--

 

Castiel finishes them off.  _Puts them out of their misery_ _,_ is the technical term, and Dean's spitting foul blackened blood on the ground. 

"Sorry Sam," he says, helping his brother to his feet. The bites stand out, livid and stark, and Dean reaches up to nudge his fingers against them, a silent fragment of apology. 

Sam nuzzles the top of Dean's head. "You're the pack leader. And an omega. Fuckin' mental thing."

"Mom said -- Mom said that alphas get scared of us."

"Yes," says Castiel. He's smiling: a proud, huge smile. "You are warriors."

"Huh," Sam says, a small sound, and for one terrible moment Dean thinks it's a preliminary to some knot-head bullshit (Sam's less and less prone to this, but it doesn't stop him spouting shit like  _not like other omegas_  every now and then).

(the truth: Dean's like other omegas. That's not a bad thing, not at all.)

(the truth Dean's learning: other omegas are as badass as he is, but tamped down by the teeth and hands of alphas like -- well, like Dad.)

(Dean's learning. Sam's learning.)

 

\--

 

Dean's heat lasts eight days. He spends half that time fucking Castiel, the other half ripping into monsters and demons with a frenzied, desperate strength. 

An omega -- any omega -- will kill to defend their family. 

Dean's exactly like other omegas.

 

\--

 

"Dad was wrong," he says to Sam, when his heat is over. "Being an omega -- it makes me a better hunter."

"It does, doesn't it?" says Sam. He sighs noisily. "By the way, you owe me therapy."

"What do you mean?"

"Castiel came to me just before you went into heat. Asked what to do. He was terrified of raping you or something. I told him that an omega in heat still has a brain, and that you're still going to be you. I told him to do what he was told."

Dean barks out laughter. "What did he say?"

"He said -- " Sam hesitates for a moment, then a smile steals over his lips. "He said that it was good to have a pack-brother to watch out for him."

"Oh," says Dean. " _Oh_."

"Yup. You're not the only connection between us anymore," smirks Sam, and he shifts his shirt to one side, shows the bruise emblazoned just above his shoulder blade. Dean would be able to pick out Castiel's teeth-pattern from a selection of ten thousand thousand. "He's got one too."

"Huh."

"D'you mind?"

"No," Dean says. "No, not really. We're Team Free Will."

"We're a pack," Sam corrects. "From now until the end of the world."

"Which won't be any time soon."

Sam's mouth thins. "Here's hoping."

 

\--

 

That night, Dean trails his fingers over his brother's stamp on Castiel's back. 

 _Pack is everything,_ he thinks, and snuggles against Castiel's warmth, drifting into the deep slow river of sleep.  _And I am very lucky._

 


End file.
